


Forgot About Us

by Nat



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, James "Bucky" Barnes/Natasha Romanova centric, MCU with 616 influence, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-20
Updated: 2014-10-20
Packaged: 2018-02-20 20:12:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2441513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nat/pseuds/Nat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An unbalanced assassin doesn't understand why he finds so much comfort and familiarity in the red of a certain woman's hair, but he does.  She wishes she could make him better and take all his pain away, but she knows from experience it's going to be a long and painful road.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He knew she was there. He'd spotted the red hair off to the side several minutes ago, but he was waiting for her to make the first move. The move wasn't coming, though. It'd been uncomfortably long, and she wasn't exactly being subtle. She'd have to know that he made her. Still, she just stood there, making herself look as unassuming as one can look while eying someone up.

Clenching his fist in the pocket of his jacket, he gave in and looked away from the exhibit. His eyes met hers with all the intensity he could muster. A challenge. He was daring her to make her move, to go ahead and take him out in a room littered with hopelessly oblivious civilians.

In turn, she simply gave a smile, only turning up the left corner of her lip, before standing upright and slowly strolling toward him. As she made her way across the exhibit, Bucky reevaluated his best exit. When he first spotted her he'd made sure the main entrance was directly to his rear, so he could quickly back up and disappear into the crowd. Now, though, a group of schoolchildren was entering, effectively blocking his way while being too short for him to blend in with. His best option changed to the fire exit to his left. The alarm would sound and he would blend into the chaos, and if she spotted him he'd be able to outrun her on the open street, anyway.

She stopped next to him, and looked toward the display, talking almost to herself, “I know you don't know me, but I'm not taking you in to anyo–”

“I know you.”

She turned her face up to see his, one brow raised in question.

“I shot you.”

“You did,” she said, her lips pursed in a tight smile.

“You know him.”

“I do.”

His mind wrapped around things he couldn't quite think, his expression turning and brow furrowing at a thought he couldn't reach. Slowly, he turned his body toward her, his eyes meeting her face last.

“I knew you,” he said, trying to make it sound like as much of a statement as his previous sentences, but the truth was that he didn't know. It was a question, and he didn't know the answer.

Her face softened just a touch at that. She met his eyes for just a few more moments before turning away, heading toward a concession stand near a screening room. He kept his distance, but followed her along nonetheless.

He stood back against a wall and watched her pay for popcorn, pretzel, and a drink. Gathering them together, she moved along into the viewing room for whatever Captain America reel the Smithsonian was playing. He let a few moments pass before trailing in after her. She was already sitting at almost the very leftmost of the bench, so he crossed the room in a few strides and took the space she'd left open at the very end.

“I knew you,” he repeated. This time it was a statement.

“Yes,” she answered anyway. Meeting his eyes, she tilted the bag of popcorn to him.

He met her gaze, but didn't take any popcorn. “Why are you here?”

“I want to help you,” she started, setting the popcorn down on the empty bench to her right. “I want to make sure you're taking care of yourself,” she reached instead for the pretzel, and placed it on his right knee. “I want to answer your questions,” she swallowed, and took a pause before continuing, “and I want to make sure you put the blame on the right people.”

“You're not going to try to take me in.”

“I'm not.”

She retrieved her popcorn and placed it back in her lap, taking a few pieces and popping them into her mouth. Tentatively, he pulled his right hand out of his pocket and reached for the pretzel on his knee. It was still warm and soft, and he couldn't resist breaking off a piece and setting it in his mouth. He turned to meet the redhead's eyes again, and she was already looking at him, grinning. Relaxed, he went ahead and chewed and swallowed the bite of pretzel.

After she watched him have a few more bites, she leaned her popcorn bag back over to him, her arm brushing against his. He was almost halfway done with his pretzel and starting to realize how hungry he really was, so he hesitantly reached for a handful of her popcorn. She pulled the bag back into her lap once his hand was out of it, but her shoulder lingered, gently against his.

The reel started as he unwrapped his pretzel on his lap and put his handful of popcorn on the wrapper, and the pretzel back on his knee. It played in the background, talking about Captain America, though neither of them watched it. Bucky's eyes were on his popcorn, which he was studiously eating one piece at a time. The only other set of eyes in the room were on him.

“Do you like it like that?” she asked.

He turned his head up to her, meeting her eyes. He tilted his head in question, but kept eating the popcorn.

“I got plenty of butter and salt on it. Do you like it like that?” she tried again, as the voice on the video started talking about Bucky Barnes.

He furrowed his brow and ate another piece, taking a pause and seeming to really think on it before saying, “It's good.”

She smiled genuinely, took a piece from the bag, and said, “Good,” before eating it.

After a few more pieces, he was done with his share of popcorn. He switched back to his pretzel, finishing it off soon after.

“How did you find me?” He asked.

“Where else would you look first for answers?”

“How did you know I'd be looking for answers?”

“Because that's what I did.”

“They took your mind, too?”

“Someone else, but yes.”

He considered that for a moment, before meekly asking, “But you got it back?”

She smiled and nodded as the short film came to an end, “Yes. I did,” she said, standing up and crumpling the empty popcorn bag, “and you will, too.”

She tossed the balled up bag into the trash, and held open the exit door for him. He followed her lead, throwing away his trash, too, and followed her out of the Smithsonian, out onto the street.

“Do you have anywhere else you want to go today?” she asked.

“No.”

“There's a hotel room where we can clean up and rest. I can drive you, if you'd like to come stay with me.” she gestured to her car, parked at the curb next to them. “You can go off on your own if you want, but I'll still follow you. You're not gonna shake me.”

She reached for her keys and hit the unlock button from inside her pocket before continuing, “I've got a warm bed and shower you're more than welcome to use. I'd really rather sleep there than on some dingy rooftop somewhere overlooking some other dingy rooftop where you're sleeping,” she opened the door and leaned against it, “It's up to you,” she said, slipping into the driver's seat and closing the door behind her.

Bucky lingered on the sidewalk, considering his options. Something at the back of his head was tugging, desperately wanting to trust her, but he _did_ shoot her, and people don't tend to forgive that very easily. If he got in the car he'd have the upper hand, though. She'd be busy driving, so if she tried anything he could either take her out or just tuck and roll.

Natasha smiled to herself when she saw him leaving the sidewalk and walking around to the other side of her car. She put her keys in the ignition and started the engine as he opened up the door and let himself into the passenger seat.

“Can I call you James?” she asked, the car still in park.

The question took him off guard. His brows furrowed and his eyes looked down to his knees as he considered the name. According to the exhibit it was his, but it sounded so foreign on her lips, and echoing around in his brain. He liked it, though, and the tone in which her voice carried it sounded beautiful to him. His eyes came up to look at the dashboard in front of him, and he nodded firmly.

Natasha smiled softly to herself, blinking, before pulling out of her parking space and driving them toward the hotel. She liked the name, too.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Bucky lingered in the doorway of the hotel room. He'd been expecting a cheap motel, somewhere someone on the run would stay, but the room was actually fairly nice. It had a spacious main sitting area apart from the beds, and from what he could see through its ajar door, the bathroom looked clean and new. It was clear the redhead wasn't running or hiding. You couldn't pay for a room like this with whatever remnant stashes of unmarked bills you could throw together.

“If you want to take a shower I can try to find you some clean clothes that'd fit you,” she said from deep within the room, digging in a bag that was sitting on a dresser.

Realizing he was still standing in the doorway, he stepped into the room and closed the door behind him while weighing his options. A shower sounded wonderful. He'd been wearing the same clothes for three days, and his hair felt uncomfortably oily against his neck. Even though she hadn't given him good reason not to trust her, it would be downright foolish put himself in as vulnerable a position as showering with her in the very next room.

“No shower,” he answered. “...but I could use some clean clothes. If that's alright.”

“Of course,” she said, reaching deep into her bag and pulling out another shirt to go along with the clothes already in her hand. She turned around and briefly disappeared around the corner behind the bathroom, rummaging around through clothes and gear laid out atop one of the beds.

She reemerged with a tee shirt and a pair of pajama pants in her outstretched arms, “Hopefully these will fit you decent enough. The bathroom's right there,” she tilted her head in the direction of the bathroom door, “if you want privacy.”

He held out his hands and she dropped the clothes into them. He went ahead and stepped into the bathroom, simply because he had the option to, and because he hadn't gotten a good look at it yet. The door clicked shut behind him, and he set the clothes on the countertop before looking around.

It was the cleanest hotel bathroom he could remember ever being in, but that wasn't really a fair comparison, because he could only remember faint glimpses of one shitty motel he'd spent a night in out on a mission once. The shower here was spacious, and had a glass door. The mirror over the sink stretched along the entire wall, and there was plenty of counter space, even though most of it was littered with makeup, brushes, and hair irons.

Turning around, he sat down on the toilet's closed lid and pulled his shoes off. He peeled off his jacket and the shirt under it, dropping them on top of his shoes. As he stood up, he slipped off the rest of his clothes. He kicked the pile into the corner of the room, not knowing anywhere better to put them.

He took the fresh shirt, first, and tugged it on. It was a bit tight, but it did fit him. He had the opposite problem with the pants, though. He tugged at the drawstrings, but they didn't tighten the waistband at all. They sat lopsided on his hips, barely holding on.

They were clothes, though, and he wasn't picky. He headed back out into the main room just in time to see red hair appear out the neckline of a tank top. She'd ditched the jeans she'd been wearing earlier for a pair of shorts, too. She pulled the shirt the rest of the way down and turned around to see Bucky emerging from the bathroom.

“Damn,” she said, “I should've known those would be loose on you, they never even fit him right in the first place.”

“These aren't yours?”

“No. I'm not about to lend you my clothes, you look like you haven't showered in a week,” she teased lightheartedly, “Besides, do you really think that I'd wear a men's AC/DC shirt? Or pants with a waistband that obnoxiously purple?”

“I wouldn't know.” he said plainly, before questioning, “Whose are they, then?”

“I'm not entirely friendless, you know,” a smile tugging a the corner of her mouth.

“No, I mean, are they...” he tried, “are they...”

“Oh. No, they're not Steve's.”

Bucky's eyes squeezed shut as the name left her lips. He crossed his arms over his chest, his metallic left fingers digging into his right bicep. His head bowed down and his knees bent, like he was curling in on himself but trying not to drop to his knees.

Natasha was kneeling in front of him almost immediately. She looked up, trying to meet his eyes, and brought up her hand to link fingers with his right hand, brushing along his metal arm on her way. He flinched at the contact, but didn't try to push her away.

“James,” she said, voice even, “Can you do me a favor and open your eyes? Please look at me?”

He furrowed his brows and shook his head to the side, but opened his eyes nonetheless. He squinted down at her, meeting her gaze.

She smiled up at him. “Hi.”

His left arm came down gradually as he stopped tensing. He squeezed her fingers, not trusting his voice to say anything back.

“You're here, with me,” she said, rising to her feet, “You're fine.”

She led him a few steps over to the couch, fingers still intertwined. They sat down together, and she curled her legs up on the couch under her. He followed her lead and did the same. He leaned against the back of the couch, but her back turned the opposite way, so she was facing him. Their legs were flush up against each other, their still linked hands resting on his leg.

After a slow exhale, he said, “I know.”

“Does that happen a lot?” she asked, watching his face as he stared at the wall across the room.

He bit at the inside of his lip, considering it, before saying, “Sometimes. It's usually a lot of dull pushing at the back of my head. Sometimes something really sharp like that tries to...” 

Bucky sighed, not finding the words he wanted. She idly rubbed her thumb along the back of his hand, tilting her head towards him, waiting patiently for him to continue. The ends of her hair grazed along his bicep, and he leaned ever so slightly in toward the sensation.

“I know what they are now, but they're still disorienting,” he tried, turning to meet her gaze. “I try to push 'em down when they're sharp like that. I mean, I want to remember. I want to know what they took out. It's just when it comes like that it's...”

“I get what you mean,” she said reassuringly, filling in the silence from where he trailed off.

“Was it anything like that for you?” he asked.

“It was disorienting, yeah. Everything was really confusing for a while. I didn't know which thoughts were my own, which memories actually happened, and which ones they made up and forced into me.”

“I don't think they gave me anything. I think they only took.”

“I looked at your file and I didn't see anything about them implanting memories. They told you things they wanted you to believe before and after they messed with your head, but I don't think anything like that would give you false memories. Everything should be yours.”

Bucky smiled hollowly, tears creeping into his eyes, “I remember a lot of the words. They're not memories. They're words,” he turned away to look down at his knees.

“I believed them, though. It was blank, and then it was 'Your work is a gift.' I believed every damn word,” he continued, bitterly.

Natasha clenched her jaw and swallowed, her tongue thick in her mouth. She closed her eyes and breathed, tight, out through her nose.

“He's dead. I made sure of it.”

Bucky blinked back the tears in his eyes, forcing them to not spill over, before looking at her and tilting his head, questioningly.

“Your latest handler. He was shot. Two times, in the chest. I made sure he was dead.”

He laughed at that. “I guess I owe you one.”

“Don't mention it,” she said, smiling.

Her eyes darted quickly across his features, looking from his eyes, to his lips, to his hair, to his eyes again. He seemed to be holding himself together alright.

“I'm going to go to bed,” she announced. “You can, too, or you can go shower if you've changed your mind. Feel free to watch the TV if you want, but it'd be nice if you could get some sleep.”

She disentangled her fingers from his, and stood up, heading back toward the bed area. A shower sounded even more tempting to him now than it had earlier. He stood up, too, and trailed along behind her. He didn't follow her all the way back to the beds, though, instead turning into the bathroom and clicking the door shut behind him.

She shouted, “The fluffiest towels are on the top rack,” to him through the door.

He smiled at that and turned the water on, hot, and shucked his borrowed clothes off, letting them fall to the floor in front of the shower. He stepped in quickly and closed the glass door behind him, letting the hot water fall over his body.

The sensation felt familiar to him, but he didn't specifically remember ever taking a hot shower before. He turned his back to the water, leaning his hair back into the stream and letting the hot water run all the way down his back. He stood in the water a while, intermittently turning his front or his back to the water, just enjoying its warmth.

A knock at the door snapped him out of it, though. He opened his eyes, but he was still alone in the bathroom.

“Hey, I put some better clothes at the door here. These ones are mine, so they actually look good,” she said.

“Thank you,” he shouted, loud enough to carry over the sound of the shower and through the door. He picked up the thin bar of vaguely orange scented hotel soap, next to what he assumed was her soap, and made quick work of actually washing himself. He opted for the tiny bottle of hotel shampoo, too, squeezing almost the whole thing out and working it into his hair.

After rinsing off for a little bit longer than necessary, he turned off the water and stepped out of the shower, reaching for the top shelf of the towel rack. Sure enough, the towel was extremely fluffy. He patted himself dry with it, and wrapped it around his waist.

Picking the borrowed clothes he'd taken off up off the floor, he set them on the corner of the bathroom countertop, before opening the door and picking up the new set of clothes. He pulled her top on first. It was a a worn light grey, and it fit comfortably loose on him. He smiled to himself, thinking of how big it must be on her.

Not letting the towel hit the floor, he took it off and hung it on the open hook beside the rack. He grabbed the shorts, next, and pulled them on. They fit surprisingly well, coming to just barely above his knees.

He left the bathroom light on and the door cracked, and stepped out into the main room. She was laying in the bed nearest the window, where her things were previously laid out, awake. 

The other bed was flush against the wall, not visible from the door. If someone broke in, they'd see her first. She'd left him the safer bed, and it was clear it was the one she'd been sleeping in before he'd arrived. He smiled at the gesture, striding over to his bed and getting under the covers.

He laid there a while, comfortable on the soft mattress underneath the plush comforter. It was infinitely better than sleeping on some dingy rooftop.

“'Night, James,” he heard from the other bed.

“Goodnight, Natalia.”

She rolled over to face the wall, smiling to herself. She blinked back tears and squeezed her eyes shut, burying her head deep in her pillow.

She hadn't told him her name.


	3. Chapter 3

When Natasha woke, the sun hadn't risen yet. The bathroom light dimly lit a sliver of the room from its cracked open door. She could hear uneven breathing from the other bed, though, and she felt as though she was being watched. Clearly she wasn't the only one awake. She rolled over to face her roommate, though the faint light didn't quite reach his bed, so he was in the shadows.

“Hey,” she said softly, her voice hoarse from sleep.

“What did they do to you?”

Confused, she sat up to got a better look at him. He was sitting at the top corner of his bed, his back flush against the corner of the room and his knees drawn tight against his chest. His eyes were wide, staring at her with an intensity she couldn't quite place.

“What do you mean?”

“I knew you... it was you and me and then it's just... it hurt. We were together and then we weren't and it was sharp and dull and cutting and then a lot of cold. That was me. What did they do to you?”

She blinked, tight, and bit at the corner of her lip before saying, “You remembered that?”

“I just told you. Yeah. What did they do to you? Did they hurt you?”

“Hey,” she said, softer than before, rising to her feet and slowly crossing over to his bed. “It wasn't that bad for me,” she sank into the bed, sitting cross legged in front of him, “I was mostly just worried about you.”

The corner of his lip raised in a sad attempt smile. She managed to entirely avoid his question, but at least she's sitting in front of him, okay and unharmed. He pulled his legs down from in front of his chest, relaxing from his previously tense posture.

“I'm gonna make sure they can't get to you again,” she paused, smirking, “You know, now they'd have two assassins to get through instead of one.”

When she saw that got a smile out of him, she laid back, resting her head on the edge of his pillow. She met his eyes and quirked a brow up, inviting. He moved from the corner he'd backed himself into, and situated himself laying down beside her, his head nestled into the crook of her neck instead of the part of the pillow she'd left open for him. Happy, she started to run her fingers through his hair.

“James?”

“Yeah?” he murmured, breath hot against her neck.

“What all did you remember?”

Her voice was soft, and hopeful. He wished he could have all of his memories back right in the moment, if not even for himself, then at least for her.

“It's not memories. Just blurry feelings. I just remember that it was us, and I was happy. We were happy?”

“Yeah,” she breathed, barely a whisper.

“We were happy. It was you, and your hair, and your eyes, and _you_ , or, us, and then... fuck, it hurt. It was cold...”

Her lips ghosted against his temple, barely hinting at a comforting kiss, before she leaned her forehead against the top of his. She continued to run her fingers through his hair, lazily. He hugged himself to her, tight, his metal arm wrapping around under her waist and his right laying over her, his hand meeting with her back.

Natasha kept petting at his hair, gradually getting slower as his grip loosened and the cool metal of his arm became warm against her waist. His breathing slowed down soon after that, and it wasn't long before hers did, too, and she drifted back to sleep.


End file.
